“That's your friend who acts, is n't it?” said Miss Lindon. “I have n't any objection to theatres myself. In fact, I often used to go to see Irving when I was young. You meet quite a nice class of people in the dress-circle. But I don't think ladies ought to go on the stage. I hope Mr. Herold won't put such an idea into Unity's head.” “I don't think he will,” said John. “Young girls are sometimes so flighty. My old friend Mrs. Willcox had a daughter who went on the stage, and she married an actor, and now has twelve children, and lives in Cheshire. I was hearing about her only the other day. I suppose Unity will have to be taught music and drawing and French like any other young lady.” “We might begin,” replied John, “with more elementary accomplishments.” “I could teach her botany,” said Miss Lindon, pensively. “I got first prize for it at school. I still have the book in a cupboard, and I could read it up. And I'm so glad I have kept my two volumes of pressed flowers. It's quite easy to learn, I assure you.” “I'm afraid, my dear,” said John, “you 'll first have to teach her to eat and drink like a Christian, and blow her nose, and keep her face clean.” “Ah, that reminds me. My head's in a maze, and I can't think of everything at once, like some clever people. What kind of soap do gentlemen use? I 'll have to know, so as to supply you with what you like.” “Any old stuff that will make a lather,” said John, rising. “But some soaps are so bad for the skin,” she objected anxiously. “Vitriol would n't hurt my rhinoceros hide.” He laughed, and held out his hand. Further discussion was useless. Miss Lindon accompanied him to the front gate and watched him stride down the perky terrace until he disappeared round the corner. Then she went slowly into the house and uncovered the canary, who blinked at her in oblique sullenness, and did not respond to her friendly “cheep” and the scratching of her finger against the rails of his cage. She turned to Dandy, who, snoring loud, was equally unresponsive. Feeling lonely and upset, she rang the bell. “Phoebe,” she said, when the angular and jilted maid appeared, “we are going to keep house for my nephew, Mr. Risca, and a young lady whom he has adopted. Will you tell me one thing? Is the lady of the house supposed to clean the gentlemen's pipes?” “My father is a non-smoker, as well as a teetotaler, miss,” replied Phoebe. “Dear me!” murmured Miss Lindon. “It's going to be a great puzzle.” CHAPTER VII IT was a puzzle to John as much as to the palpitating lady, and in the maze of his puzzledom the gleam of humour that visited him during their interview lost its way. Walter Herold's eyes, however, twinkled maliciously when he heard John's account at once rueful and pig-headed. Then he grew serious. “It will be comic opera all the time. It can't be done.”